


beneath the milky twilight

by yewwnears



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, larry stylinson - Freeform, lourry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-09
Updated: 2013-10-09
Packaged: 2017-12-28 17:39:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/994703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yewwnears/pseuds/yewwnears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The moonlight casts shadows upon them, swirling fumes of dull light that wrap around them tightly, and Louis swears Harry glows, glows everywhere, glows the brightest deep where Louis’ heart is supposed to be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	beneath the milky twilight

**Author's Note:**

> So this was supposed to be short and sweet but it spiraled out of my control and is now angst. I don't know what I'm doing, i'm sorry. Feedback is appreciated.

 

 

In the distance and the eerie quiet of twilight, a cricket chirps vociferously. Above him, the light dulls into an azure, much like the stillness in the middle of a storm or the stripes that coat the atmosphere after the sun sets, perceptibly fading into the color cerulean.

Other than the cricket, there’s silence of the most hushed sort, until Louis inhales and lets out the shaky breath he has been keeping suppressed. It’s just that, it’s _just_ he’s out alone in some godforsaken field while his friends muck about in some godforsaken _barn_ where a godforsaken party they got invited to is in full course.

Louis knows he’s notorious for his egotistical (only slightly) spontaneous character, always the loudest amongst a rowdy crowd, always the one winding people up with his sarcastic witty remarks, always the one with the most ludicrous of jokes.

But he’s also the only one who knows that his thoughts resound in his head in a shrill litany, binded together perpetually, taunting, _always_ taunting. And that the creases by the corner of his eyes are not laughter lines but a daily reminder of sentiments too farfetched to be deemed true, permanent scars inflicted by frowns appearing late at night.

And here, leaning against the aloof willow tree in a deserted field, Louis feels like he’s lost insight of himself, doesn’t know how to define himself anymore, doesn’t know where Louis, the one with no weight to the name starts and _this_ Louis ends. He slumps against the rough bark and slides to the ground, drawing his knees up to his chest.

His head spins and he knows it’ll only be a minute before Zayn or Liam come looking for him, knows he worries them with this newly acquired desire to detach himself from their lifelong friendship. Seems like it’s been a lifetime. God, he really needs a fucking vacation.

Only this time, when the sound of footsteps echo, stepping on fallen branches that crack under the weight, it’s not either of them or even Niall, it’s Harry. Harry who he misses so, so much every single second of every single day, and he knows that Harry is right _here_ , every day, he is right beside Louis, but really, Louis feels like he’s miles away, and for a minute he lets himself have this, this small consequential moment where he needs him closer.

The moonlight casts shadows upon them, swirling fumes of dull light that wrap around them tightly, and Louis swears Harry glows, glows everywhere, glows the brightest deep where Louis’ heart is supposed to be.

“Hi,” He says lowly, almost a whisper when he’s hovering over Louis, hands tucked in the pockets of his awfully tight jeans.

Louis manages a small smile, “hi, Haz.”

“What’re you doing here, Lou?” Harry murmurs and god, Louis wants so badly to run his hands through those lose curls.

“You know, just not feeling it,” He shrugs and from the corner of his gaze he sees the way Harry’s face falls before he contorts it in an unbreakable mask, unfathomable.

“Right, yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Louis sighs, “What are you doing here?”

There’s a pause, and the cricket chirps again.

“Dance with me,” It’s sudden, catches Louis off guard.

“What?”

“Jesus Lou, it’s just one dance. Gonna say no to that too?” Harry’s voice is soft but Louis can hear the bitter taste rolling off his tongue.

“No Harry, I just, what? Why are we dancing?” Louis complies though and scrambles to his feet, dusting of any dirt that might be clinging onto the back of his jeans. He looks up, _up,_ at the beautiful boy who keeps him up at nights and feels an unforgettable roil of emotion swirling inside his stomach, overwhelming in its intensity. Fuck.

“Louis,” Harry drawls out in his slow voice, and it’s so lovely, the way the name coils around his tongue, syrupy like molasses, like informing someone of how lovely the weather is. _Now well, isn’t it sunny outside? Absolutely lovely._

“Yeah?” Louis asks, tilting his head to the side as Harry steps closer ever so slightly, a catch in his voice, lump lodged stubbornly in the back of his throat. And then he’s evading Louis’ space completely.

“Louis,” Harry whispers again, hands resting on Louis’ hips, they’re so close, so fucking close they’re breathing the same air, Harry’s breath of _let me have this_ inhaled right back by Louis. He deflates, slowly creeping his arms around Harry’s exposed smooth neck, the skin milky.

“S’ no music.” He mumbles quietly.

Harry lets out a laugh, “doesn’t matter,”

“No dancing without music Haz,” Louis insists although the ghost of a smile seems to be tugging his mouth upward and damn it, this is not what’s supposed to be happening.

“Oh shut up,” Harry reciprocates, fond. Louis aches, a dull burn settling in the pit of his stomach, and he thinks, thinks how it’s never really gone away, how it’s made itself a cocoon and how he’s become so accustomed to it that he can abate it for a short amount of time, call it a companion when he’s curled in on himself.

“Not if you don’t first,” It’s this thing, their thing, a harryandlouis thing that seems to have been long forgotten, until now. A miniscule bubble consisting of the two of them, well _consisted_ , and now they’re here, and honestly what the fuck are they doing?

God, Louis doesn’t want to ponder over it anymore, is sick of the countless doubts, so he sags into Harry, head on one of his broad shoulders. He feels it, the warm pressure on his forehead, the set of lips that brush over his sweaty skin, so familiar, so long forgotten. He feels the lump articulating in his throat all over again.

“You okay?” Harry asks as they sway aimlessly, to and fro, back and forward, right to left, Louis stepping on Harry’s feet and Harry stepping on his right back.

“As okay as I’ll ever be,” Louis smiles but what he wants to say is _i’m in love with you, i fucking love you, i’m so in love with you. You’re my best friend._

And for one inexplicable moment, he gets a little braver, aligning his body with Harry’s, admiring how they just _fit,_ seamlessly, hesitates only for the fraction of a second before he admits, “I got an offer at that Uni in Boston, I’m thinking of taking it.”  

Harry only freezes momentarily, but his eyes flash dangerously and _no, not now,_ _no_. “America?” His hands drop to his sides from where they were only seconds ago clutching Louis’ waist.

“Yeah.”

“Fuck,” Harry mutters, stepping back an inch, raking a hand through his tousled hair, all disheveled. Louis loves him so much. “Fuck Lou, this is big stuff,”

Louis snorts, “No shit.”

“Don’t go.” It’s a plea, a fumble of fingers before they knot together.

“There’s nothing for me here,” Louis says quietly, scrutinizing the way Harry’s lower lip is trembling so, pushed out, a slight tremor that Louis can almost _see_ course through his whole body.

“Me, I’m here.” Harry replies just as quiet, inching closer again, knocking knees with him. “Me, Louis. I’m fucking here. Don’t just fucking leave me.” His voice breaks.

“Haz,” He breathes out raggedly because there is no air, no fucking air in this space between them and Louis’ chest is constricting tightly, so much that it aches all over.  “We’re- we just,”

“Stop it, please,” Harry whispers, voice croaked and almost broken, hands latching onto Louis’ wrists “I miss you so much it’s like-“

“I’m- I’ve been really busy, you know _._ With this massive project and all,” It’s a blatant lie; Louis knows this and Harry probably does, too. But it’s the best he can do, because right now all the walls he’s ever surrounded himself with, guarded himself with, will crumble and that can’t happen, he _can’t_ let that happen. He’s not going to ruin this, whatever it is.

“S’not what I mean,” Harry’s voice is even but his eyes waver, glossy in the dark and fuck everything, Louis is just so tired. He is so fucking tired.

“I’m sorry,” It’s sincere, it’s the best he’s got, it’s the _only_ thing he’s got. A pathetic apology that probably doesn’t even mean anything. “I- uh, yeah.”

There’s a sudden rustle of movement, out of the blue and private, so unexpected that it knocks all the air right out of him, leaves him breathless so that he doesn’t know how to respond. It’s Harry’s lips on his, just a gentle brush, just the softest whisper of _don’t run away from me._

Louis stops breathing completely, and everything blacks out that isn’t this wonderful, beautiful boy whose body is flush against his own.

It surges through him like a wildfire, warmth of the most scorching kind, a running litany of _harry harry harry_ that is clouding his brain, spreading all the way to the tips of his fingers, pooling into his stomach, and he is filled with so much love that he feels like he might burst at the seams. Because he’s _in_ love with Harry, so much he can’t breathe with the frightening knowledge of it at times, it fills and shatters and builds up everything inside of him, it’s everything.

He looks at Harry and he sees the most beautiful part of his day albeit painful, he looks at Harry and he thinks _home,_ with late nights around the telly with mugs of steaming cocoa, he looks at Harry and he sees everything he sought himself having in the foreseeable future when he was sixteen and realizing later on he couldn’t, except now, _maybe._

His eyes latch onto the sparkling green of Harry’s eyes that have been watching him intently and he thinks suddenly of the time when his mom sat him down and they had a chat, middle of the night, the words that ring incessantly in his head, _sometimes you just don’t think lou, you go for it._

So he does.

He cups Harry’s face in between his hands, tangibly gentle, because he still perceives the younger lad as breakable, in need of protection, brushes away the stray lock of unruly hair that is plastered on his forehead. He smiles slow, all wide and bright, before he pulls him in again and presses their lips together, tentative. Harry sighs above him, fingers taut on his waist.

They kiss slowly, tenderly, savoring and milking the moment for all it’s worth, so that when Harry slides his tongue over Louis’ lower lips in a way that queries _okay?_ Louis’ quiet moan of response echoes _yes, okay._ His hands slide from the small of Harry’s back to clutch at his hair, roaming and searching, needing. Pulling away for breath, Harry smiles down at him, the lopsided grin Louis is so terribly fond of. “So,”

“So,” Louis says, beaming and biting his lip to prevent from doing so.

“So, I’m sort of, kind of, really in love with you,” Harry admits, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, eyes ablaze and hair matted. He’s a picture, really. Radiant.

And well, Louis is, to put it into words, Louis is _ecstatic_. For a minute, and then his monsters come back. “If you’re just saying that to-“

“Christ, _no._ ” Harry frowns, pecks Louis chastely once. “I _love_ you. Like proper heart and doodles and whatever other pink stuff, you know? I really do. The rest we can figure out later, if you want.” He looks so eager, so honest and Louis lets himself believe.

“I thought you’d never,” His voice is very quiet, like it always is when he feels like he’s making a confession, small and somewhat significant.

Harry brushes his hand across his face, eyes soft and smile small, but he’s so warm, so fucking warm, Louis wants to stay here for a long time, ensconced in the lovely heat, especially the one in Harry’s eyes. And funny thing, he _sees_ it now, so it’s progress of some sort. “You need to stop living like you want to tear yourself apart, Lou.”

Louis knows he could lie and say Harry is being plain dumb or swat at his chest and have it over with but things like that have never stopped Harry from pinpointing the lie and persisting the truth, not with him. He meets Harry’s eyes again, never faltering. “We’ll get there.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
